


We Killed Each Other

by LostCybertronian



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: I read somewhere that they should both be able to speak Latin, M/M, What I imagine happening after they both kill each other the first time, i love these two so much, trigger warnings for violence and blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:14:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCybertronian/pseuds/LostCybertronian
Summary: Nicky and Joe met each other on the battlefield, killing each other over and over again.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nicky/Joe
Kudos: 26





	We Killed Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> First Old Guard fic, I really wanted to do something like right when they met, when they were still enemies. Also I used Google Translate for this, so I'm sorry if the phrases are wrong.

He was a Holy Warrior; one of those destined to liberate the Holy Land. He would not be bested by this heathen.  
“Why won’t you die?” He screamed, and drove his sword through his opponent’s chest for what seemed like the millionth time.  
The man’s body spasmed; he growled something in Arabic-- something Nicoló didn’t understand-- blood spewing from between clenched, reddened teeth. Then, he slumped forward over the blade, shoulders shuddering once more before stilling.  
Nicoló stepped back, pulling the broadsword free with a sick squelch and wiping it clean on his torn tunic, which seemed already so drenched with blood; both his enemy’s and his own. Finally, chest heaving, eyes stinging with sweat, he glanced down to the corpse at his feet.  
He knew it would be too much to hope that, this time, it would stay dead.  
He began to pace, limping the length of that small, scrubby clearing until his broken knee healed and then he just walked, waiting, waiting for that gasp of the newly living to tear open the burgeoning night. Waiting for their battle to resurrect itself, as it had half a dozen times before, over the course of sweat-soaked hours.  
He waited, eyes darting, darting to the fallen corpses of his brothers in arms, darting to his slain enemies, darting to the sunset, darting back to the man. His footsteps squelched over the blood-soaked dirt as he waited for that breath to come. It didn’t.  
And then a blade sliced into his back and he fell to the ground with a startled cry and the clatter of his sword, feeling the hot splash of his own blood across his back.  
“Alsalam 'urjuk,” came a heavy, gasping voice. “Alsalam . . . _placet._ Placere, pacem.”  
_Please, peace._ The words echoed in Nicoló’s head, each syllable pounding its way into his brain. With great effort he heaved himself onto his side, hacking up a spray of coppery blood before collapsing onto his back to face the man who had just killed him.  
Bright, terrified eyes stared down at him from a face all but obscured in black curls plastered to his forehead and cheeks with sweat and dirt and blood. He’d lost his head covering in the fight, Nicoló remembered suddenly, recalling the desperate burning of his lungs as he gasped for air, the long white cloth wrapped tight around his throat.  
The blade he clutched at Nicoló’s chest shook; whether it was from sheer exhaustion or something else entirely Nicoló wasn’t sure. His head swam with pain; his vision crawled at the edges with black.  
He died not seconds later, his last sight the glint of the fading sun off a wickedly curved blade.  
He knew it was too much to hope that he would stay dead, and sure enough he woke once more. Not to the sword this time, but to those bright, dark eyes. Like stars, Nicoló thought, and wondered idly how his God could possibly give someone he was supposed to destroy such beautiful eyes.  
He started to rise, grimacing at the lingering pain, but the sword immediately jerked up, its tip pressing into his tunic. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to know he could be dead again in mere moments.  
“Peace,” his enemy said again, in flawless Latin. “Please. It must be clear to you that we cannot be felled at the other’s hand.” He surveyed at the corpses strewn over the trampled ground with a slight frown. “It seems we cannot be felled at all.”  
Hatred clamped its ugly hands around Nicoló’s heart; how dare this man-- this enemy-- suggest he abandon his Holy mission? But as he glanced around at his former brothers in arms-- most no more than shadowy lumps now-- he realized he was right.  
“Peace,” he agreed, the word feeling clumsy and foreign at his lips.  
Something like relief crossed the man’s face and he withdrew his sword, wordlessly extending a hand to Nicoló to help him to his feet.  
Nicoló hesitated before taking it; his hand was calloused and warm, its broken nails crusted with blood. His hand lingered before the release, grip firm and strangely comforting. “What is your name?” He asked.  
“Yusef Al-Kaysani.”  
“Nicoló di Genova,” Nicoló replied.  
“Nicoló,” Yusef said, as if testing it out, pronouncing it like he’d known Nicoló all his life. “We should go before someone returns to collect the dead.”  
“Together?” If he sounded as shocked and disgusted as he felt, Yusef made no comment; only nodded. “We are supposed to be dead,” he said. “If we are discovered to be still alive, we will be executed.”  
This was true. Still, Nicoló only stared, stared at Yusef as he turned and began picking his way through the abandoned battlefield, his sword held carefully in slightly trembling hands. He stared until Yusef called his name, insistent, and then he followed.


End file.
